


Devils Prevail

by grand_mephy



Series: Rivals in a Dangerous Spacetime [6]
Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Pre-Game, Death Interactive Cultural Experiment, Gen, Multi, Part One - The Petition, References to Hamlet, Spoilers, Teenage Rebellion, Unfinished and Written for NaNoWrimo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-06 04:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12809847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grand_mephy/pseuds/grand_mephy
Summary: [NDRV3 SPOILERS]Devils prevail but that won’t stop Ouma from being optimistic. He’s got a bestie with morbid tendencies; a supporter interested in a new narrative; and a classmate looking to extinguish impurity within their local high school community. Together they cope in a world perfumed with death, doubt, and good ol' fun times.They’ve got this. Devils prevail but—they’re the lesser of a billion devils dreaming of the perfect death (or the perfect murder).[NDRV3 Pre-Game AU: Revolution Edition]





	Devils Prevail

**Author's Note:**

> This was my project for NaNoWriMo, which I gave up on even though the month hadn't finished. Got a bit distracted with other writing stuffs, ehe.
> 
> I wrote this like a Miyazaki film, with no idea of what I would end up with. I did some edits but I'll probably rewrite it at some point. Nevertheless, this is my fun interpretation of Pre-Game V3/World of V3 and the cast before the game.

 

* * *

  **1-1  
****Foster Death Flag**

* * *

 

_There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so._

The idea strikes him at night, reading Hamlet for what seems like the eighth, nineteenth time—he’s lost track, he knows the soliloquies off by heart but, he still reads them like a mantra.

_There is nothing either good or bad—but thinking makes it so._

The idea forms much later after dinner, when the excuse to not watch that damned show slips from his lips. Ouma lies on his blankets, in a dreary room, a box of a screen of an unseen camera (there might as well be one, it’d be typical of his cousins). He thinks—lets the idea accumulate with malice, and glee, and hatred.

He feels them so strongly that it keeps him up all night. Meanwhile the sounds of murder bleed through the walls and Ouma doesn’t bother covering his ears with a pillow. _No_ —he’s not that person anymore. Who would risk that in this world? Instead he hikes up his blankets and lets the idea form into something fun.

He tells Shinguuji the next day.

"And you're sure about this… petition?" Shinguuji is classically worried in a way a brother might deadpan stare his sibling, but Ouma doesn't have a sibling anymore, so what does he know?

They're amongst their peers in a classroom with watchful eyes, commotion burning around them. Chatter and dares and disastrous advice—if Ouma had a yen for every time "death" or "DanganRonpa" was mentioned, he'd be rich enough to shut it down and buy a duck pond in the process. So he grins from where he sits across his friend, hands clenched, eyes sparkling.

“More than anything. It’d be interesting, right? A social experiment. Something that’ll drive the whole school crazy! Nobody’s done it before, at least, I don’t think so.” Ouma's never really checked, or asked, because that would be stupid. “What? You don’t think it’s a good idea?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to execute.” Despite that, Shinguuji lets out a long-suffering sigh. “But there’s no point stopping you. You've always been pigheaded about these sorts of things."

He knows him so well. Ouma’s proud but at the same time, “You’re helping.”

“I won’t.”

“Please?”

“Nope.” 

Fair enough. Ouma doesn’t want to raise a death flag.

 

 

 

Speaking of death flags.

“Aw, she was my favorite!” Ouma stomps his feet on the ground—is that overdoing it? Who cares!—and whisks Shinguuji away from the public television suspended in the outdoor courtyard. Where crowds of devils gather every week for the latest episode; a church mass converging on the new world opium ("death drive" Shinguuji had told him; some Freudian idea that everyone strived for instinctual self-destruction).

“Do you think she’ll die?” Shinguuji asks. Behind him Seren blusters like the rebel she is, and her pixels soon converge into the episode’s end, what a—what a show. The churchgoers disperse and Shinguuji adds, “I didn’t even know she was your favorite. How come you never told me? In fact, I didn’t even know you kept up with the show.”

“Hard not to with my parents. And of course she’s my favorite! She’s been trying to get everyone out, after all!” Ouma loves that sort of thing. He likes the fighters, the rebels, the visionaries. It makes him feel less alone to know that there are people out who truly think the game is crap even with their amnesia. That they don’t give up so easily to their baser instincts, to "death drive". Or maybe defying the evolved code of murder _is_ their basic instinct.

It’s been Ouma’s instinct since he was a kid. He’d just never realised it until he watched his first Killing Game, age fifteen, side by side with his cousins with the DVD cover open by his feet. It had promised so much. Fun cases, nail-biting drama, titillating executions. That particular instalment was one of the better ones, with a well-rounded cast and refreshing new rules.

His cousins loved it. Everybody loved it. The reviews sung with praise.

All Ouma thought about was the blood, sticky and pink, dripping in the screen like melted candy. He didn’t get it. Doesn’t get it, still. He pictures Seren covered in pink and instantly recoils.

“You’re far too optimistic about the optimists,” Shinguuji says. He’s another one with that baser instinct—yet finds the whole death for entertainment shtick _fascinating_ , and it was him who gave Ouma that stolen copy of Hamlet in the first place. Death, death, questions of death, unanswered to inspire fatalism.

Too bad because, “Optimism can get you somewhere. You can’t know unless you try, right? That’s what Seren always tried to do." Ouma smirks. "Will do again, if my predictions are correct. Ah, I keep forgetting she’s alive!” 

“Hm, now that’s not optimistic at all...”

They enter their classroom and are met with a scene so background it's become the norm (lunch break is always rowdy with their classmates and the people they attract). He and Shinguuji find their usual spots and eat amidst the commotion. Ouma's food turns pink every now and then and he _hates_ how that colour is seared into the shutter of his eyes. He looks up at Shinguuji.

“You’re helping,” Ouma says. Shinguuji nearly chokes on a mouthful of rice.

“I—won’t.” His mask is back on before Ouma can retort. A ways behind them, a group cheers loudly. "The least I’ll do is cover for you. Do you even need covering? You'll only be passing around a sheet."

"Sheets," Ouma corrects with a curled lip. "I'm going to tack them on every bulletin board in the school. And post it up online. And send it to every mailbox in the province. Hey! You can cover the printing costs!"

Smoke wafts in their direction. Someone's lit something on fire; from where Ouma sits, he can make out Toujou's angry flush as she bitches about spilled gasoline and clumsy hands. Ooh, whose hands? Whose hands?

Shinguuji tugs on his mask. "I can do that," he says. Right as Gokuhara storms in out of nowhere, puts the flame out with his bare hands. "Not to say that I will. Though it will certainly be cheaper than your previous attempts at pranking."

Ouma huffs. "Excuse you, they weren't 'attempts', they were  _successes_. And this isn't a prank. This is the start of a revolution."

"If you say so."

"I'm serious, Shin-chan. I'm going to stop the Games.”

His tongue burns once he says it. Ouma says a lot of shit to get by but that—

Maybe Shinguuji was onto something about his optimism.

Said boy looks at him pointedly, rightly earned. "I don't suppose you've glanced around this room? At our peers, our teachers?" He shakes his head, long hair swaying. "The Games, Ouma: the Games are sacred to them. Even if I take you seriously, _they_ hardly will."

Ouma knows but, that doesn't stop him from kicking his friend under the table. "It's worth trying anyhow! I mean,” he scrambles for words just as his classmates pass his vision, “Iruma-chan and Tenko-chan will definitely be onboard!"

"Only because they'll think it's a joke."

Iruma and Tenko are fun people. Mean but fun, who mean harm but don’t sometimes, and who _like_ Ouma’s pranks. “They’ll be onboard,” Ouma repeats with conviction. “So shush, infidel. If you’re going to be such a pessimistic jii-san then I’ll give special attention to our fellow classmates. Have a guaranteed vote from people who know me!"

"Vote,” Shinguuji echoes. He drops his fork. “Alright then. And the others? Toujou-san? Akamatsu-san? Hoshi-kun? They barely tolerate your pranks in the first place. What makes you think they'll sign up?"

"I'll borrow your idea and make them think it's a joke. It's just a signature on paper, right? It's perfectly harmless."

Shinguuji smiles against his better judgement, too conditioned to Ouma’s mischief. "Oh? Then what about Gokuhara-kun? He doesn't trust you at all. And Harukawa-san and Yonaga-san; they won't want to associate themselves with a troublemaker such as yourself."

"I'll lie to Gonta and tell him it's for some school initiative. As for the girls... what do you suggest?"

Loud giggling interrupts them. Curious, Ouma peers around his friend. Angie and Tenko are in the midst of shoving Akamatsu into Narita's direction, twin smirks etched on their cheeks, as Hoshi feeds a smuggled cat behind them.

"An extended lie,” Shinguuji says, and Ouma turns back to him. “Tell them it's for a humanities project. If they call you out, tell them it's to sabotage _my_ humanities project."

Ouma claps his hands. "Genius!" More giggling. "I'm really starting to rub off on you, huh Shin-chan?" 

"Truly a tragedy. But we aren't done yet."

"Aw."

Shinguuji chuckles. "Aw, indeed. Have you forgotten? Yumeno-san's family holds shares in DanganRonpa. What makes you think she'll sign away its termination?"

Ouma bites his lip. Yumeno, Yumeno, Yuckeno. He remembers seeing her in the courtyard, surrounded by churchgoers with too many questions and not enough shame. "That _is_ a bit of a problem. I don't want her to sue me again... but it'd be _amazing_ to have her signature. Imagine that, a supporter of the DanganRonpa franchise stabbing them in the back!" He leans back on his seat, finger under his chin. "Hm, what to do? Should I lie and tell her it's for her future birthday present?"

"Why don't you tell her the truth?"

"Shin-chan!"

"She'll think it's a lie anyway.”

Ouma pouts. "Now you're making me sound bad... And anyways, isn't this technically you helping?"

"No... This is me thinking out loud. And anyhow, you should be more concerned with your one remaining obstacle." Shinguuji dips his chin. "Momota-kun is a vocal fan of the show. How are you going to convince him?" 

"Momota-chan’s a piece of cake. I’ll just,” Ouma stuffs his mouth with sausage, "make him think he's applying for the show."

From the way Shinguuji regards him, he's not convinced.

"Hey. I can be _very_ convincing. Besides," Ouma says, "this is the longest I’ve avoided him. He won’t know what to expect."

Akamatsu is shrieking. It's either her or the cat Gokuhara's chasing around the classroom.

"He _might_ believe you," Shinguuji says over the noise. Chairs screech and bentos clatter. "If he doesn't throw you out a window first."

The cat darts under their table and Ouma and Shinguuji leap to their feet, as Tenko sprays it with her sports bottle, as everybody around them erupts.

 

 

 

That night Ouma makes several accounts on websites and forums and social media whatnots. He's in the middle of drafting the sign-up sheet when his father, grizzled and thin, knocks on his door with a ceramic cup.

"Dinner, Kokichi."

Ouma shuts his computer. " _Finally._ "

"What can I say? I had to work late." He ruffles his son's indigo hair. "Come on, your mother made your favorite. Shoyu ramen, spicy just the way you like it."

"You mean the way Nee-chan liked it."

"Right." His father kneels. "You're right," he repeats, accidentally knocking the cup to his son's arm as he grips him, gently, by the shoulders. "She always liked it more than you, didn't she? Then again... that was a lie you just told."

Ouma pouts. "It's not fun if you call me out so early."

His father laughs. "Come on, I'll take her place as your opponent. I don't like spice all that much, but if you can handle it, why can't I?"

"You'll choke faster than the girl in last year's second trial."

"Ouch, Kokichi. Have you no faith in me?"

Ouma blows him a raspberry.

Yeah, he thinks, as they chase each other to the table. His father's pretty fun.

Fun like the Games.

 

 

 

_He breathes into his clammy palm and makes sure he doesn't make a sound, not with the commotion raging outside, the chaos even teachers can't control with their authority and rules and Ouma, as quietly as he can, peers through the keyhole of the storeroom door._

_They're still killing._  

_He backs away. Why did he run? He should've stood his ground and laughed along with them. Said some stupid excuse—(“No thanks I’m waiting until my sister’s enrolled so we can join a game together”). Then he wouldn't be here._

_Ouma hides and wins by default. He runs out and sinks against a locker, sniffling away the stench, when a voice rings._

_"You really hate it, huh?"_

 

 

* * *

  **1-2  
****Winner's Word**

* * *

  

He gets banned on half the forums he posted on and has hate mail from roomfuls of devils sitting, typing, with nothing better to do except wait for the newest episode.

Ouma deletes them all and checks the signatures. There's a few. All from anonymous users. He grins at their caution.

The sane few.

Maybe he'll organise a meetup one day.

 

 

 

Ouma pins up sign-up sheets in all the major bulletin boards in school, early in the morning, where no one but the janitors can see him. But they won't blab! They'll be too busy cleaning up gasoline and crumbs and blood and whatnots. Ouma races around the school with a mad grin.

He sits his first class with a giddy feeling crawling up his throat, but Ouma suffocates his laughter. He shouldn't be laughing in the first place. It's not a prank. It's serious, no matter how much he'll have to lie to make it not so.

Well, as serious as his mood will allow. 

Ouma glances around the room. Shinguuji, as always, is fast asleep beside him, head pillowed in his arms after too many nights reading seinen manga. Two seats forward, Gokuhara stolidly writes notes. Toujou watches their teacher like a hawk and Hoshi watches the cabinet for his cat. At the back of the room, two seats from Ouma, Tenko's lowballing notes to Iruma. Yumeno squirms in her seat like a caged hummingbird and Akamatsu carves lyrics on her desk with the tip of her fingernail. Flanking her is Harukawa and Angie, the nerdy rivals of Shorai-naraku High, writing notes like their lives depend on it.

It's a small class.

"Ouma-san."

He looks up. "Yes, sensei?"

His sensei for Social Studies is a bit of a bitch, with a body of a flamingo and the skin of a prune, but there's no point scorning her when Ouma will eventually need her vote. But she's never been charmed by him, and even now Jinnouchi-sensei scowls as the class abruptly quietens. 

"I asked you a question Ouma-san, but since you weren't listening, why don't you tell me what I’ve been talking about?"

Ouma pretends to think. "U~Um... society stuff?"

"Symbolic interactionism, to be precise. Turn to page 147 and listen more carefully from now on." Jinnouchi-sensei levels them all with a harsh look. "The same goes for all of you.

"And will someone tell Momota-san to come to class? I don't care how you do it, so long as he sits through the full fifty minutes. Now, onto change and continuity..."

She’s cut off with a buzz from the classroom television. It hardly works half the time but staticky scenes of the DanganRonpa logo fizzle into existence. Chairs screech; his peers lean forward in interest, whispering amongst themselves. Jinnouchi-sensei sighs and lets the show command the class.

It’s the usual tribute to the fallen; a reminder of the people who’d died so far, victim and killer. Ouma half-expects Seren to appear but it’s not her time yet. He wonders what she'd been like before the game, before amnesia and lobotomy took ahold of her. Did she always have blue hair? A killer smirk? Had she been a sweetheart before the typical 180 personality switch the show sometimes did? 

Who knows. Who knows. All Ouma knows is that—the world’s a stage. Death is distant; mere corpses inside the screen. The blood's usually red but nowadays it's pink, just to make things easier for the degenerates who only watch the Games because they're uneducated and have nothing else to afford for entertainment. Like peasants at the dumb show.

Blood blooming like a pixelated masterpiece. What would Shakespeare think? _A tragedy!_ he'd surely yell. _The world's a tragedy!_

Nope! The world’s a stage only a few would consider a tragedy. At least in Ouma’s experience. He’ll find out soon, with his petition sheets. A surge of twisted joy bubbles in his throat and really, compared to the sick fantasies of other devils, Ouma’s idea of fun pales in comparison.

 

 

 

The day goes by and his peers take notice.

"Who the hell put these up?"

"What a fucking joke."

"They actually expect us to sign it?"

"I don't blame them, last year's Game was pretty shit."

"It's begun," Ouma whispers to a sleep-deprived Shinguuji, who leans against his locker like it's a lifeline. Before them lies a scene; a crowd of pissed fans pissing themselves over Ouma's great work. His _revolutionary_ work. It's almost as good as one of his pranks.

"You owe me 500 yen," Shinguuji says, and Ouma balks.

"But you said you'd cover the printing costs!"

"I said I wouldn't do that. Nor help at all."

"You said you could cover for me and you did," Ouma points out. "Plus covering the costs counts as helping, you know!"

From the way Shinguuji cranes his head, he's chosen to ignore that. "The way things stand, you don't have many supporters. Have you spoken to our classmates?"

"Only Iruma-chan. I told her someone dared me to dare her; she's going to get Tenko-chan to do it, follow the new 'trend' this mysterious someone started." It had been maddeningly easy convincing Iruma to spread the word. She's always had a large appetite for entertainment (they all do, really).

"Using the network of our popular classmates. I suppose that's clever... What else do you plan to do?"

"Well," Ouma says just as someone rips out the sign-up sheet from the billboard, "I figure I'd target Gokuhara-chan next. He’s pretty reasonable. Kinda gullible if you say the right things."

"And what then?" Shinguuji asks. "Even if you do get through our classmates, what then? Will you try to convince the rest of the school? How? Especially our more... violent peers."

Ouma shrugs, witnessing the manic destruction of a single piece of paper.

"I'll figure it out."

Shinguuji narrows his eyes and uh oh, that's never a good sign. "Are you even looking, Ouma? They've torn up your sheet." He draws closer, head inclined conspiratorially. "I know you're smart but, great plans require actual planning. And actual thought."

Wow. Fire burns in Ouma's tongue when he says, "I think you contradicted yourself there, Shin-chan. Am I dumb or not? Make up your mind before you become a hypocrite."

Shinguuji turns on his heel.

"Don't replace your sheets. That will be all the help from me today." He starts walking. "I'll see you in class."

Ouma sneers. He and Shinguuji usually see eye to eye but the times they don't, they can get particularly stubborn. And unfriendly. But even though Ouma doesn't agree with him at all (he's _got_ a plan, what does Shinguuji want, a projected forecast?) he won't discount Shinguuji's concern.

After all, not many people in their school are as intelligent as they are when it comes to the world's insanity. Or at least, critical of it. Ouma remembers his fourth day at this school, lessons learned and chameleon mode activated, when out came the masked boy with a book tucked under his arm. A book he gave to Ouma the first time they met—because Shinguuji had stolen it, like a nerd, and in the midst of running from the librarian entrusted his prize to a stranger.

“ _This is banned,_ ” Ouma had told him, when Shinguuji came to get it back. His thumb was rubbing the stamp that told him so, and he’d said again, “ _You could be expelled for this._ ”

Shinguuji had torn it from his hands.

“ _That’s better than being dead._ ”

Better than being dead, huh?

Ouma spots a shock of purple. He quickly merges with the crowd and ignores the way they part for this looming figure, like _he's_ something special, someone to fear.

They're not wrong. But they’re in more danger than Ouma in their current mind state.

Ouma doesn’t want to die. He needs to have a lot more fun before that happens.

 

 

 

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

Ouma stops. It’s the end of school and Shinguuji’s gone and ditched him for literary club, like the nerd he is, and Ouma turns around to see his classmate raise a hand. “I’m not gonna tattle on you, don’t worry,” Hoshi says. “Didn’t think it was a prank anyway.”

“Oh?” He and Hoshi don’t talk much, the latter spending the majority of his time with over a billion cats around the area, and just being his aloof self in general. But the times he does are usually about his pranks or the cats he smuggles. Shooting the shit type of stuff.

“I didn’t feel annoyed.” Hoshi’s tiny but his footsteps scratch against the concrete of the outside, voice carrying despite the breeze and the birds. “In fact I even put my signature on one of them. Well… one that was thrown to the ground. And ripped to shreds.”

“Oh. Thanks."

Hoshi doesn’t leave. Like a weirdo. Ouma fidgets and adds, “Why’re you telling me, exactly? I thought you didn’t like me Hoshi-chan. And I was hoping to keep it that way...” 

That elicits a reaction. “Don’t annoy me now," Hoshi says, clicking his tongue. "Just here to say that my signature means nothing. I just did it cuz I could. I don’t really think your petition will work... In saying that, I’ve got to give it to you. You’ve got guts. Stupid guts, but, well.” 

Ouma smiles despite himself. “Eh, I’m trying to be optimistic. Look Hoshi-chan! The breeze is breezing, the birds are singing and there’s no scent of blood in the air. Things might just be looking up.”

“From what exactly?” Hoshi glances around them, at the street teeming with children, teenagers their age, parked cars and whistling trees, the shadow of their school looming behind iron-fence gates. “Though I’m guessing that, if you started a petition to stop DanganRonpa, you mean the whole killing gig.”

Ouma turns to him. “Is that not wrong?”

“People sign up for it. It’s their choice.”

“I didn’t,” Ouma says. Middle school hadn’t been nice to him, with that stupid trend at the time. Even now, in a random classroom—a game every semester, due to goddamn "death drive".

Nobody says anything for a while. Then Hoshi coughs into the back of his hand.

“Want to meet my cats? Not—my cats, technically. They’re strays. Friendly ones.”

Ouma steps on a pebble. “You’re being awfully nice to me.” Feels the jagged thing poke the sole of his shoe. “I don’t need your pity. I’m here, aren’t I? Perfectly healthy. Learned my lesson too.”

He hears Hoshi kick the ground and mutter, “You’re obviously upset enough to stop joking about… Just offering some relief is all. Cats... they're a lot better company than most people.”

“I’m not usually into cats,” Ouma says thoughtfully. “Then again, I’m not usually into people either.”

So he follows Hoshi to his neighbourhood, which turns out to be one of the worst in the province. It’s the first time Ouma’s been there. It’s the same as his own neighbourhood; parallel streets with broken glass, the scent of home-cooked meals and townhouses each scraped with individual messes, from spindly swing sets to stray balls that seem to move out of their own accord. It’s the people that are different—there’s a hunch to their shoulders, tension and conflict brewing in their gait. Always watching.

Ouma has half a mind to lecture Hoshi about this omission of _very important life-threatening information_ , but Hoshi gives him looks that tell him to shut his mouth, like he already knows he’s surrounded by scum who frequent their school, in and out, and that he’s not completely proud of it.

In fact, the only thing that seems to give Hoshi real joy (besides his anecdotal aunt) are the stray cats they visit in an alleyway not that far from Big Tenshu Park.

There’s a swarm of them, dirty and furry and all too happy to stand on their hind legs and claw Ouma’s legs. “They seem to like you,” Hoshi says, and Ouma spends the next few minutes tricking a few kitties into thinking a rat’s nearby. He likes their disappointed yowls.

“Tell it to me straight, Hoshi-chan,” he says, rubbing the skin behind the ears of a particularly clingy feline. “Do you like DanganRonpa?”

“I’m not a dedicated follower. Now. It’s—you know.” Hoshi scrunches his nose. “Sometimes you’re bored and you’re flicking through the channels, and it pops up. Like a random soap opera. It’s like that for me nowadays. I watch it if there’s nothing on, or if something interesting’s going on.”

“Do you find it interesting?”

“It's boring now. But in general... yeah. The people there are wacky as hell but relatable. You’re watching them try to survive, go through hardships, make friends and… lose them. Then they prevail in the end—through Hope, Trust, Faith, Justice, all those great themes. That’s the appeal of it, in my opinion.” Hoshi looks at him. “What about you?”

Ouma huffs. Picks his nails and says, “The appeal is lost on me. Probably cuz I’ve been in their shoes... Sorta. The only parts I watch are when—they try and find ways to escape, or challenge the mastermind. Brave things like that!”

“Huh... Do you want to be that person?”

Does he? The cat purrs in his lap. “I get forcing people into Despair,” Ouma says after a while. “But forcing them to kill each other… It’s just a waste. Why move it to reality? I thought everyone was fine with the animated stuff… Man, our government must really hate kids…”

Hoshi sighs. “You’re not another conspiracy nut, are you?” Ouma snorts. “Good. Got enough people out there thinking something’s wrong with our government. It’s… a given, I guess. But they really go to town with some of their theories.”

“Some of them _aren’t_ theories. I think. Only cuz I talk with some of the oldies at Bochi, and they have really interesting experiences.”

Hoshi stops stroking a cat. “Bochi? The nursing home?”

“Yup! I go there once in awhile, part of a volunteer thingie. They tell me a lot of stories, about their childhood, their schoolhood, what life was like before DanganRonpa.” Now that, _that’s_ always interesting. “I know what you’re thinking,” Ouma says before Hoshi can utter a word, “that parts of history have been lost, some for deliberate government reasons. But these guys are _oldies_. They’re close to death—nobody’s gonna worry about them!”

“What about you?” Hoshi asks with a steady gaze. “You tell other people ‘bout your concerns willingly? People like me?”

“No, I don’t discriminate against short people.”

“Fuck you, too.”

“Ha! Really though, I trust you. You signed my petition.”

Hoshi picks up a cat. Grips it gently by the paws.

Then he says, “You really are optimistic, huh.”

Ouma hums. “Say a lot of shit and you can get away with a lot. It’s natural in this world. Everything’s so… What’s the word? When it’s fact but also fiction, cuz there’s nothing to trust except the word of scribes… Privileged people who can write, or something like that. Truth through the victor’s eyes.”

Hoshi shrugs. “Winner’s word.”

“Really? You just made that up.”

“Well. Winner’s word.”

Ouma laughs. The cats yowl with him.

He walks home from thereon, chest lighter with Hoshi’s vote. His quick, meaningless vote. Ouma stops in his tracks and a kid dunks a ball in a lowered hoop; the ball’s aflame and the scent of gasoline alights the air. Ouma watches the game and wonders if he could get the kid's vote, too.

_My signature means nothing. I just did it cuz I could._

_I don’t really think your petition will work._

Ouma comes home. Checks the online signatures, the few he’s gained, and wonders what compelled the people behind them to sign his radical appeal for change. Sheer boredom? Shared vision? How real is their commitment?

How real is  _his_?

 

 

 

_“I understand,” he says, as Ouma tries to ignore him. “It’s stupid, isn’t it? Risking your life like that, and enjoying it… You gotta wonder sometimes,” he taps his bat on the ground—one-two, one-two, “why people do it. Why they_ want _to do it._

_“Hey.” He skids closer. “Why do you think I do it? Go on, guess.”_

 

 

* * *

  **1-3  
****Changing The Narrative**

* * *

 

Some of the people who signed left comments in their wake and most of them, if not all, are assholish in nature.

"Kokichi? What're you doing, you're supposed to be getting ready! You start school in twenty minutes!"

"Gimme a sec!"

"Honestly," his mother sighs as she picks out a cleaner shirt for him to wear, "I give you too much freedom nowadays..."

 

 

 

“You were right,” Ouma says.

Shinguuji doesn’t even look at him.

“I take it the petition isn’t going so well," he says, as they walk down the corridors past billboards empty of Ouma’s sheets, paneled floors clean of shreds of said sheets. It’s like it never happened. An attempt at revolution gone, and the world kept turning.

Ouma catches up to him.

“I hung out with Hoshi-chan yesterday. It was nice. I patted cats.” Shinguuji strides faster. “Wait! He told me he signed one of my sheets!”

“That’s nice.”

They round a corner and Ouma grabs his arm. “He didn’t mean it,” he says. “Did it for the lulz. Who knows how many signatures I’ve got were for the _lulz_ —and I thought about it, I really did. And it’s not enough. I want people to care. _Really_ care.”

Shinguuji sighs. Finally turns to him and says, “You’re lucky I care.”

“Yup. Best friend. My right hand man.”

“Stop it.”

“O-kay.” Ouma steers him into an empty corridor. “So if you’re this triggered then you’re invested in this as much as I am, right? So help me. You’ll be—the vice president I bring with me to the top, when I get the votes and win the election!”

“If you run for Prime Minister when we’re older, I will hang myself.”

“Shush, infidel. Any ideas?” The bell rings. “Ugh—tell me on the way.”

“The idea of a petition was inane to begin with,” Shinguuji says, their shoes sliding as homeroom dawns closer. “Signatures don’t mean much if you can’t back them up. I would’ve told you this but like I said, you’re pigheaded.

“You need to make people care. These are the same people conditioned to like the Games. Working on that won’t be easy... Perhaps you can target whatever dislike they have for the Games; whatever gripe, complaint or ambivalence you can find in their opinion of the show. Twist it to your advantage. Like you’re wringing necks." 

Ouma grimaces and says, “You’ve been reading too much manga." Even with Shinguuji’s apparent desire to end DanganRonpa, he still reads psychological horrors like they’re his religion. “But totally, I get your point. Anybody I should target in our dear class? Besides Hoshi-chan, I’ve bookmarked him already.”

They saunter into homeroom and take their seats. “Yonaga-san comes to mind,” Shinguuji whispers to him after _aisatsu_ , as their teacher starts attendance. Ouma glances at the white-haired ganguro scribbling on a blank page. “You remember when she first came here, new to our concept of entertainment killing. I have a feeling she despises our obsession for it as much as you do.”

“Harukawa-san?" 

“Here, sensei.” 

“What about her?” Ouma asks, side-eyeing the brunette. “I’ve seen her roll her eyes at the show before.”

Shinguuji shakes his head. “Good luck trying to talk to her. Best to settle with the more... approachable of the two.”

Ouma nods. Catches Hoshi staring from across the room and waves. Shinguuji narrows his olive eyes at the exchange and says, “He knows you started it, Ouma. Can you afford to trust him?”

“Hoshi-chan’s cool. If I don’t annoy him with any pranks then he probably won’t say anything.”

They’re interrupted by their teacher, who stands before their class like a preacher with no podium. “Before Toujou-san and Gokuhara-san come up, I would like to deliver this announcement myself,” she says. “A student of this school has posted numerous sheets petitioning a stop to DanganRonpa around campus. If you know who this person is, or have partaken in this vandalism, please see Principal Muto as soon as possible. That will be all.”

Class resumes and Shinguuji just gives him a _look_.

“You don’t know; it probably wasn’t him.” And vandalism? Really? Ouma’s disappointed in his teachers. They could be worse than devils sometimes.

 

 

 

“Angie-chan,” Ouma chirps.

He corners her when she tries slipping away. “It’s not nice to ignore people trying to be friendly to you,” Ouma says as commotion rings in their classroom. Ten minutes is all they have before Language class and prep time tends to be shorter with Yuuma-sensei at the helm. “Come on, I just wanna talk.”

“You’re going to prank me,” she says.

“Nope, but thanks for the idea.” Ouma steals a chair and sits across from her desk. “And anyways this is serious stuff, no pranking at all. About the petition and stopping the Killing Games.”

Angie returns to her scribbling. “So? What about it?”

“Do you believe in it? What it’s trying to do?”

Pen scrapes across paper. Patterns blossom in their wake. “So? Why are you asking Angie? Ask someone else.” 

“But I value _your_ opinion, Angie-chan. Because you don’t like the Games, do you?”

He’s heard her say so. Earlier this year, mid-first semester, when Angie had first transferred from an island archipelago so remote, DanganRonpa coverage was practically nonexistent. Ouma only knew this after searching it up, after watching Angie get chased off campus by a group who took her innocent comments to their ugly, muddy hearts.

They could’ve been friends then—if Ouma hadn’t his own innocence to slowly rid of.

Angie frantically whips her head. “Nobody’s listening in,” Ouma assures. Five minutes says the clock. “I’m just curious, Angie-chan. Because if you ask me… I believe in that petition.” He leans closer, forcing her eyes to meet his. “There’s a lot of wrong in this world and you and I both know it’s true.”

“Angie—” She falters—evens her breathing, and focuses on her patterns. “Angie doesn’t want to get into trouble. Trouble that you always bring with you, Ouma-kun.”

“Please! Call me Kokichi.”

Angie doesn’t answer. Two minutes says the vein in Yuuma-sensei’s forehead. Ouma racks his mind for something, anything.

“How about some revenge?” he says. “A little payback to show those people how messed up they are? Let’s say—” he glances round the room, “—let’s say we prank Tenko-chan, eh? And Iruma-chan, too! They’re meanies, aren’t they?” 

Angie doesn’t answer. But she grips her pen just a bit tighter and Ouma calls that a win.

“If you’re up for it, wait for me and Shin-chan end of fourth period. I’ll tell you the details then!”

“Go away,” she says.

“‘ _Go away_ ’, she said,” Ouma tells Shinguuji, slipping into his seat before Yuuma-sensei can chide him. “But I’m ninety-three percent sure she’ll do it, so, play nice and don’t scare her with your emo look.”

Toujou shushes them before turning her shushing wrath onto everybody else. 

The next ten-minute prep, Hoshi scares shit out of them.

“I literally just walked over,” he says once Ouma’s heart rate slows to a healthy beat, _geez_.

“Your height does you wonders,” Shinguuji says tactfully. Hoshi glares, which the masked boy reciprocates. “Why did you approach us, Hoshi-kun?”

"Just to clear my name." Hoshi turns to Ouma. “I didn’t rat you out for vandalism, but I _do_ know the person who did.”

“Who?” Ouma says.

“Why are you telling us who?” Shinguuji says.

Ouma covers the other’s already covered mouth with a hand. “Don’t mind Shin-chan, he’s just paranoid. But really, who’s the sucka who made my attempt at revolution a big deal?”

“Momota-kun, from what I heard. Could have been one of his friends but, it was him I heard talking ‘bout it in the halls. Said it was useless, the whole idea.”

“You did as well,” Shinguuji points out. “One might think you’d agree with him, and want Ouma sent to the Principal’s.”

“Normally I would because of his stupid pranks,” Hoshi says, “but his whole revolution idea, of changing the world and all that… isn’t a prank, is it?” He smirks. “And I’ve decided that, it wouldn’t be cool of me to shoot that down when I wanna see it happen. Or rather, _how_ it happens.” 

Somehow his words send chills down Ouma’s spine. Briefly he recalls how Hoshi spoke about people surviving through hardship, making friends and losing them. Prevailing, in the end.

_That’s the appeal of it, in my opinion._

_Do you find it interesting?_

_It's boring now._

What the hell. “You’re helping us for the entertainment value,” Ouma says.

Hoshi shrugs. “That so wrong? Look—it’s not that I don’t believe in your cause. I do. I’m just—” someone passes them and he lowers his voice, “tired of DanganRonpa. Like you said, right Ouma? It’s a waste forcing people to kill each other. So think of this as—me wanting another narrative. Where you try to be the person who stops that.” _Winner’s word._

Shinguuji scoffs. “And you’re also a character in this so-called narrative, Hoshi-kun? A self-insert?”

“Hoshi-chan,” Ouma pipes up before his friend picks a fight with their resident catboy, “want to help us prank Tenko-chan and Iruma-chan?”

Hoshi predictably looks annoyed (he’s never been one for pranks) but nods all the same. “Sure. Sounds fun.” He says the last part with a glance at Shinguuji, and Ouma knows he’s in for a troublesome lunch. 

But at least Hoshi’s vote didn’t turn out to be meaningless at all. Even if it’s still coloured by that stupid show.

 

 

 

Fourth period ends and they go to leave for lunch break. With Shinguuji to his right, Ouma spots Hoshi moving after them. Angie is nowhere to be found.

Turns out she’s waiting for them outside the room, a few lockers down. Ouma knows she’s waiting because her pen really isn’t moving across her notebook.

“Angie-chan! Good to have you with us! Hoshi-chan’s going to help cuz he’s small and invisible, and Shin-chan is—useful, for something.”

Angie looks at them warily. Ouma grins because he’s a _friendly guy_ and she says, “Angie doesn’t want to get into trouble.”

Hoshi snorts. “Too late for that.”

Ouma thinks another glaring match is happening behind him and to save face he widens his already impossible grin. “Don’t mind him, Angie-chan. I promise, you won’t be linked to the prank at all. We definitely will need your help though. The _plan_ calls for it.” 

Angie’s eyes dart between them. It sorta hurts to see because Ouma _knows_ that caution. (Knew it, once.)

“Can…” A pause. “Can Angie trust you?”

Hands folded behind his head, Ouma beams. “ _Definitely_ , Angie-chan. C’mon—be optimistic with us!”

 

 

 

_"Because I hate people."_

_Ouma stares at his toes. Fiddles with the lint in his pocket. The floor is cold._

_"You know what I mean. I saw you grind your teeth going in." He sniggers. "There's no better look that shits on our obsession with," he raises his bat, "death and that." A pause. "I think you feel the same way. About people. And death._

_“You're just too weak to accept it.”_

 

 

* * *

  **1-4  
****Necrobolic Interactionism**

* * *

 

They’re gathered in a desolate room when Ouma unravels a sheet. 

“Okay, here’s the plan.”

 

 

 

“It’s working,” Shinguuji says with something akin to awe. Ouma grins as they watch from the doorway to the gym, Angie close behind. The spectacle before them unfolds in a comically hilarious manner—Tenko, school sports star, trash talks their tiny amigo, who’s apparently challenged her to a race to the local ShopMart outside campus. Surprisingly Hoshi still looks cool as a cucumber even with the insults being spat in his direction.

“We gonna start or what?” he says, coolly, as a cucumber, to Tenko’s reddening face. Ouma nearly keels from silent laughter.

Beside him Angie’s not so confident, whispering, “Are you sure she doesn’t suspect anything?”

“Not a thing." It’s why Ouma chose Tenko out of the pair, because he knew she’d be gullible enough to treat a ‘meet up’ note as an innocent swipe to her pride. And it is—it’s _so_ gonna be. “Angie-chan, you know what to do right?” 

“Get her uniform when she’s changed—” Angie’s breath hitches. “Sh-she’s changing out of them in the middle of the gym!”

“Truly no shame,” Shinguuji says. “At least Hoshi-kun has the decency to look away.”

“And you, Shinguuji-kun..?”

Ouma shushes them, “Quick—move! They’re racing out right now!”

The plan’s straightforward from thereon. Ouma steals the paint, Shinguuji steals the mannequin that’s been in the school’s dumpster since last month. It’s a fleshy mannequin, mutilated to bits by chemicals from a stray Science incident. The _perfect_ canvas.

“This better work, Ouma-kun,” Angie says, once they’ve got the paint, person and uniform set up on the table of a killroom.

“It will, just do your job.” Ouma doesn’t tell her they’re in a killroom—Angie would never get anything done if she knew mini killing games once transpired here, borne from a stupid trend that carried onto senior devilry. The room was refurbished after the last rogue game and no one’s visited it since, except maybe couples who get off doing it in a room plagued with death.

Ouma glances around. If he looks hard enough, he can see phantom stains.

_I saw you grind your teeth going in._

“You’re pretty good at fashioning a dead corpse,” Ouma says as Angie slabs pink on the poor mannequin. Angie flinches but continues working, eyes downcast, a look that's become typical of her.

“Angie watched a season. She was curious about the… blood colour. Why it was pink, even when the murders looked real…” 

“It’s a marketing ploy,” Shinguuji says from where stands on lookout. “A psycho-pop motif unique to DanganRonpa. Pink is also a very attractive colour. If you were to convince a nation that murder was the new ‘vogue’, you’d create something memetic.”

Ouma makes a gagging noise. “You did _not_ just reference Kamukura.”

Angie frowns. “Blood isn’t pink. And yet, you’re making me use pink.” Her brush stops moving. “Is this how it is? Instead of living in reality... we live in that show? Angie… Angie doesn’t understand how something so impure,” she jabs her brush in a hollow eye socket, “can exist in this world.”

“You mean _tsumi_ ,” Shinguuji says, “the Shinto concept of sin. Specifically... sin through murder. Is that not right?”

Angie stares at him. Time ticks and Ouma chirps, “Sorry to cut this history lesson short but Hoshi-chan can’t distract Tenko-chan for long. Let’s get this dummy into the gym before Kegare-sensei starts prepping up, okay~?”

 

 

 

“This is going to be _fun_ ,” Ouma says to Shinguuji as they walk into the gym for the second time that day. Some of their classmates are already being briefed by their teacher—notably Iruma, who chats her mouth away to Yumeno and only looks distinctly annoyed that Tenko isn’t here.

Yet. She doesn’t know the half of it. Ouma tosses a smirk to Angie who stands a ways from them, still intent on not getting into trouble.

“As long as Hoshi-kun keeps Chabashira-san distracted for a while longer,” Shinguuji says. Kegare-sensei _is_ taking an awful lot of time explaining how volleyball works, as though they’d never played it before! “I still don’t trust him by the way.” 

“Why not? Hoshi-chan’s cool, even if he’s only doing it to make me the new Hope-filled protagonist. We need all the support we can get, you know. Even Angie-chan’s, who you’re totally being biased about…”

Shinguuji shakes his head. “It’s still not enough. There should be a better method to this… Something memetic, like pink blood.”

“I’d suggest a petition but that didn’t work out too well,” Ouma says. “If it’s really getting to you I can ask Gushi-san! I made him promise to remember why DanganRonpa started in the first place and I’m _positive_ he’s gonna tell me tomorrow. In fact, why don’t you come meet him?” 

“No thanks. I need my nap.”

“Shin-chan, you take naps all the time! Even yesterday during Social Science!”

“We have to go,” Shinguuji says, and the anticipation slams Ouma like a freight train. They follow the rest of their class who head to the change rooms with their gym clothes, except Tenko, because Tenko is far away.

And also dead in the girl’s room, propped against a toilet, head dipped into the bowl. Face mangled with pink and mush and horror. Ouma doesn’t have to strain his ears to hear Iruma scream like a bitch.

Others follow suit; Kegare-sensei drops a volleyball and the boys use this excuse to rush into the girl’s room—and no wonder Iruma’s screaming—because she, they, all recognise that hairstyle. Even if it’s a wig Ouma fashioned from black yarn.

He sees Angie, skittish as ever, look _proud_ of her handiwork and he knows she’ll be on board with their smear campaign. Payback to show how messed up they all are, how the world is nothing but a _tragedy_ , a cesspool of devilry.

“That’s not blood.”

Ouma stills. Immediately darts to the side as Momota, finally-turned-up-to-a-class-today-Momota, approaches the dummy with unblinking eyes.

“Yeah, this is paint,” he says. “Blood’s not pink anyway—what are you guys on about?”

“I was wondering about that, too.” With dainty steps Yumeno stalks forward and dips her fingers in the bloody mess that is her supposed classmate. “This isn’t even the consistency we use in promo shots,” she says, rubbing the paint between her thumb and forefinger.

They’re ruining it. They’ve _ruined_ it, because Iruma’s stopped shrieking her guts out, because common sense has apparently returned to his stupid classmates.

“Who’s responsible for this?” Kegare-sensei booms, and Ouma shifts under several pairs of eyes. “Ouma-san,” his teacher says lowly, “is this your doing?”

The gym door blasts open.

“Hello, Tenko-sama’s here! She just beat a midget in a race! Wait… what’s everyone looking at?”

 

 

 

“This is the seventh time this month,” Muto-sensei says, “and the month isn’t even over yet.”

Ouma wriggles in his seat. He’s learned to stay quiet during his lectures from the principal, his dear principal, who wears spectacles but is blind to nearly every aspect of how a school should be disciplined. 

“Giving me the silent treatment, Ouma-san?” Muto-sensei shuffles some important looking papers. “Then I’ll have a guess as to why you did this. It’s more than just ‘having fun’, right? Knowing what I know about you… you did it out of a grudge.

“Whether that’s true or not is irrelevant, but tricking your class into thinking one of their classmates is dead is taking it too far.” He lowers his voice. “I know that that is… tamer compared to what has happened in this school—” Which still happens, by the way, “—but the point still stands.” 

“That people aren’t our entertainment?”

Whoops! That slipped out.

“Look,” Muto-sensei says, with the air of an ineffectual parent, “I sympathise with you, Ouma-san. I really do. I myself was never on board with DanganRonpa. Not my taste. But that isn’t something you can say so freely in public, especially in our community.”

“I wonder about that,” Ouma says. He doesn’t say more—he can’t incriminate himself, not when there’s a good chance his principal’s bullshitting him now with sympathy—

Muto-sensei regards him for a moment. He’s a balding man (people in authority always seem to be) with a fat moustache and a bulging chin, so different to Jinnouchi-sensei’s wiry frame, tension wrought in her crinkling skin. They’re both old, both mildly immune to the killing phenomenon. They should be. Though they're not as old as Gushi-san or the other oldies at Bochi, so what does Ouma know?

“What happened to you?” Muto-sensei suddenly asks, and he may be a fat bastard but his eyes, his eyes bore holes in Ouma’s skull. “I remember a meek boy who approached me—the entrance ceremony, it was—asking about killing games in this school. I said ‘yes’... and I still remember the look on your face.”

Ouma finally looks at him. Eyes different, mouth set appropriately. "It’s like you said, sensei. There are things you just can’t say. And in doing so, you might start to fall in line with what society expects you to do. The right thing to do!” 

“Is that so? Then Ouma-san, if you’re so concerned about doing the ‘right thing’, then you won’t mind cleaning out an entire classroom by yourself after sixth period. For, say, the rest of this month. You don’t do extracurricular activities so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

Ouma grinds his teeth even as his lips pull up. “Then if it’s alright, sensei—can I clean 2-C?”

“... That room?”

“I, um, don’t want anyone to disturb me.”

Muto-sensei stares at him. Reaches for his coffee and says, “Alright. It _would_ save me the trouble of reorganising classes.

“Before you go,” he adds just as Ouma opens the door of his office, “did anybody help you with this prank at all? It’s not in my nature to ask, for you to elaborate your methods—but... you don’t have to be the only one punished, Ouma-san.”

Ouma turns away. “No one helped me. This Punishment Time is my own.”

He leaves then, with a smile slicing whatever misery he felt at having to be in a killroom once more.

 

 

 

An attempt at revolution gone, and the world kept turning. Ouma wonders if Muto-sensei had ever tried to change the way their school is—the things students can get away with—the power a certain show can have, over youngsters who would one day rule their world and surpass the fragile limits of sanity. Did "death drive" prove too strong, too inevitable?

What a disappointment!

Ouma walks into sixth period when Jinnouchi-sensei says, “Trouble again, Ouma-san? You should know by now that your pranks never end well.”

Well, that’s a matter of opinion. Ouma slips into his seat, quietly ignoring Iruma and Tenko’s glares, when Shinguuji speaks up.

“Sensei, can we go over interactionism again? I didn’t quite understand it from your brief recap.” 

Jinnouchi-sensei gives him a funny look, which isn’t entirely unwarranted given that Shinguuji _enjoys_ Social Science enough to be damn good at it, even with his napping. A 4/10 lie at best! “Alright then,” she acquiesces, because that’s what you do for favorites.

“Simply put, symbolic interactionism is the study of how individuals shape society and are shaped by society, through meanings exchanged in interactions." Jinnouchi-sensei raises a finger. "Those symbolic meanings—values, if you will—can differ from person to person. Through the process of social interaction, these values can be shared."

“Live and die by the meme!” Iruma crows. Brief laughter, a faint “ _That’s not funny anymore_ ” going unheard in the background. Jinnouchi-sensei clears her throat and everyone settles down, as Ouma leans forward in interest.

Shinguuji steers them back on track. "In other words, the values of killing are imparted by broadcasting a killing game—for example."

"As an example it’s vague... but technically, yes. However, when you examine change and continuity in a society, you have to consider which values are affected by which of the two variables." Jinnouchi-sensei crosses her arms. "Tell me Shinguuji-san: has killing become more valued in today's society?"

Yes. Ouma wants to say _yes_ , but Shinguuji cuts him off: “No, killing is still frowned upon as a… broad term. But killing for _entertainment_ …”

A rare smile cuts their teacher’s face. “A reasonable argument, Shinguuji-san.”

“What if you were to subvert that?”

The question rings in the silence. All eyes turn to Angie, who promptly shrinks in her seat. And yet, “As a hypothetical example, sensei... Angie is just curious.”

Blood thrums in Ouma’s veins. What’s this feeling? Excitement? He sees Shinguuji’s mask crease into the shadow of a smile. 

Jinnouchi-sensei thinks for a moment before saying, “Well, Yonaga-san. Symbolic interactionism dictates that for change to happen, the values which underpin our society would need to change. The whole social interaction process _endorsed_ by DanganRonpa would need to change. However, that process has become so integrated into today’s society that it permeates our daily life. Subverting it would... surely be a feat." 

This feeling—it’s excitement, infectious like laughter. Infectious like values. Ouma glances at the clock. He wants to get up, start pacing, start planning—

_The Games, Ouma: the Games are sacred to them._

_People sign up for it. It’s their choice._

_They actually expect us to sign it?_

_Only because they'll think it's a joke._

_My signature means nothing._

_I want people to care. Really care._

 

 

 

After telling Shinguuji to pass a note to their new buddies— _after final homeroom, brainstorm session, don’t be late and don’t back out like a weenie_ —Ouma makes his way to their new clubroom.

He’s so lost in thought that he’d forgotten—he had chosen 2-C because it held far too much despair and old news, that nobody ever goes there. Nobody ever should.

“So you did come here,” Momota says, and Ouma steps back. Grips the knob of the door and braces his knees.

Momota’s sitting on a desk swinging his legs, a bat absent beside him ( _of course it is_ , he never carries one around anymore). “This is my hangout space, so I was surprised see my favorite table suddenly all bloody.” He knocks on said surface and—shit. “Except it’s not really blood, is it?

“The last time we talked was like, what? First semester? Since then you’ve been causing all sorts of trouble… The stunt you pulled last period—that was a statement too, wasn’t?”

He approaches Ouma. He looks so casual doing it but there’s an _air_ about him—like ravenous birds flocking together in the distance, slowly approaching, engulfing everything in their dark presence. The open arms of a devil.

Then Momota laughs. Digs the heel of his palm on Ouma’s head and ruffles his hair.

“C'mon, Kokichi. I told you, didn’t I? Just give them what they want! No need to be an ass about it.” He goes to leave. “Heroes... they don't live long."

_"Just give them what they want." Footsteps recede. His voice echoes in the empty corridor. "I hate people but I'm nice enough to do them a favour, you know?_  

_“If they wanna die, I'll kill them. If I get money and fame out of it, then all the fucking better!"_

 

 

 

There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.

 There is nothing either good or bad—but thinking makes it so.

 

 


End file.
